


you can never go back, and the answer is no

by triggernometry



Series: Slice of Afterlife [6]
Category: Flight Rising
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 04:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16866601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggernometry/pseuds/triggernometry
Summary: Brief interaction/character study between Booth and Boneset, a swamp witch. Booth comes to Boneset's house in Leechroot Landing for advice regarding the talisman she used to bring Haj back from the dead.





	you can never go back, and the answer is no

“You're a long way from home.”  
  
The charmsmith stands at the top of the small stairs leading up to their wooden porch, regarding Booth with rosy eyes half hidden behind a curtain of unkempt hair long enough to trail the ground behind them. Their mane is kept from entirely obscuring their vision by the long split down the middle afforded by the charmsmith’s single spiralling, jagged-edged horn.   
  
“Ain't got a home,” Booth says.

“Mm,” the charmsmith says. “One of _those._ What've you got for me?"

  
“Maw-pit bones and maren scales,” Booth says, hefting the bag she’s got slung over her shoulder for emphasis.

“Maren scales?” The charmsmith's ears prick with interest. “How'd you get those?”  
  
“I know somebody who knows somebody.”  
  
“Freely given, or...?”  
  
“Freely donated,” Booth says. “Too much blubber on a maren to kill 'em right.”  
  
“Lovely,” the charmsmith says in a flat voice. “You may have a seat.” They gesture toward a pair of chairs on the long end of the porch.

“Got somewhere more private we can talk?”

“No. My neighbours are a half-a-podid and an overgrown alligator, neither with the taste for gossip. Your illegitimate child, secret love affair, or metaphysical misadventure is safe out here.” The charmsmith moves on slow, stiff legs toward one of the chairs, lowering themselves into it with a quiet exhalation of breath. “Sit,” they say again.

Booth climbs the three steps up the porch and takes the empty chair across from the charmsmith. She holds the bag of maw-pit bones and maren scales on her lap and thinks about her next words. 

Around the charmsmith's house, Leechroot swamp continues its business undisturbed: the wind whispers through long garlands of beard moss and rattles the leaves of the heartblood and bonewood trees growing close around the charmsmith's house. The cicadas drone in ceaseless, anxiety-inducing harmony. Somewhere, a pair of birds argue halfheartedly from across a span of still, dark water.

A windchime made of flattened spoons and wood ear feet suspended from the porch eaves clatters almost-but-not-quite musically in the wind.

“I've come for advice,” Booth says, finally. “Instruction, if you have it. I made a talisman.”  
  
“Your first mistake, probably,” the charmsmith says.

“Third, maybe,” Booth says. The charmsmith makes a noncommittal gesture with one hand; Booth notices the knuckles of that hand are gnarled, crisscrossed with old scar tissue. “The talisman was made to restore and hold fast a soul to its dead body.”  
  
“I'm going to need to see these offerings of yours,” the charmsmith says. Booth hands the bag over and they take it with unsteady hands. They open the bag and draw out a maw-pit bone: a broad, flat plate of a tunneler's head armor, one edge still retaining a serrated tooth. They turn it over carefully, inspecting it from all angles before lowering it again and looking at Booth. “Continue.”  
  
“I didn't – intend for the talisman to last as long as it has.”  
  
“How long?”  
  
“Almost a year.”  
  
The charmsmith gives a low whistle. “Impressive. Necromancy run in the family?”  
  
“Grandma was a cairnstone priest.”  
  
“Ah, yes, that will do it,” the charmsmith says with a low, insincere laugh. “You get the talisman from her?”  
  
“From her spellbook, yes.”  
  
“You have that with you?”  
  
Booth hesitates. She reaches into the inner pocket of her jacket and draws the book out slowly. It's old, small – scarcely wider than her palm – bound in cracked black leather emblazoned with the sigil of the Cairnblood cult on its cover. She passes it over to the charmsmith, who hesitates almost imperceptibly before taking it. They regard the cover for a long moment before looking up at Booth with an appraising expression.

“You one of those blood-drinking weirdos?” the charmsmith asks.

“No,” Booth says. “I leave the blood where it spills.”  
  
The charmsmith laughs – a grating sound – and flips the book open to the page marked with a length of jute fiber. It's the page containing the instructions for the talisman Booth used. They read it over a few times, frowning faintly.

“This is an unusually cruel talisman,” the charmsmith says finally. “I suppose you had a lot of anger to work out.”  
  
“I suppose so.”

“And your question now is...?”

Booth is quiet a moment. She takes one breath, then another. “Is there a way to – separate the talisman from the soul, without killing the host or displacing the soul?”  
  
“You should've thought about this before using it, frankly,” the charmsmith says.

“Well, I didn't. Just give me a yes or no.”

“No,” the charmsmith says with a sigh. They regard  the pages of the book still open in their hands again. “The point of this talisman is to produce a thrall incapable of escape. To destroy the talisman is to destroy the soul, and separate it from the host body, obviously. As I said – it's an unusually cruel talisman.”

The charmsmith gives her back the book. She tucks it away in her breast pocket again.

“Thank you,” Booth says finally. She doesn’t feel especially grateful, but it seems to be the only thing left to say now. 

The charmsmith makes another noncommittal gesture with their hand and nods. “I suppose you're welcome.”  
  
Booth gets up out of the chair and starts back down the stairs. The charmsmith watches her go for a moment.

“Who'd you use it on, anyway?” they call after her.

Booth pauses, one foot on the last step of the stairs and the other pressing down against the soft Leechroot soil of the charmsmith's yard. She looks out over the trees standing sentinel around the house, reflecting double in the unnervingly mirror-like surface of the swampwater around them.

“No one you know,” she says, moving to cross the yard. The sound of the charmsmith's derisive snort follows her to the treeline.


End file.
